


and all this longing

by procrastinatingbookworm



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018), The Iliad - Homer
Genre: Afterlife, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bondage, Cuddling & Snuggling, Demisexuality, Established Relationship, Feral Behavior, Grief/Mourning, Hair Washing, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Intersex Achilles, Kissing, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Polyamory, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicide Attempt, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-13 01:54:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29768919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/procrastinatingbookworm/pseuds/procrastinatingbookworm
Summary: A triptych of encounters, in which Achilles needs more than any one person can give, and Odysseus pays his dues ahead of time.
Relationships: Achilles/Odysseus (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Achilles/Patroclus (Hades Video Game), Diomedes/Odysseus (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore)
Comments: 30
Kudos: 53





	1. amidst

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cryogenia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cryogenia/gifts).



> dedicated to [guhdong](https://twitter.com/guhdong), for the conversations that inspired this fic.

Odysseus wondered, sometimes, if he caught Patroclus by the wrists and turned his hands over, that he would find blisters on his palms, or the shiny tautness of burn scars, raised and white against pale brown.

It seemed like it should hurt, should scar, to touch Achilles as often as Patroclus did. 

An arm settled around his waist as they walked. A hand on his shoulder to draw him back. Fingers brushing his, or tangled in his hair, or settled on the back of his neck, three fingers resting on fabric, two on bare golden skin.

As though Achilles wasn’t as painfully bright as the sun at noon. As though molten bronze wasn’t cooler to the touch.

Odysseus didn’t envy Patroclus. 

As desirable as Achilles was—young and pretty, beardless even after the burst of growth two years into the war that had left him taller by half a head and far broader than before—it wouldn’t be worth minding him.

Wouldn’t be worth his vicious temper, or his mood as mercurial as the sea. Wouldn’t be worth the way he stalked off the battlefield still a lion, and only whoever spent the night in his tent would know if he ever became a man again, before he left the camp a lion again in the morning.

So Odysseus wasn’t envious, no. Not of Patroclus.

He could’ve been, easily. His bed was rarely warm—Penelope had told him that she wouldn’t begrudge him taking comfort where he could find it, trapped here away from her, but he didn’t, anyways.

Not with women, at least. There was Diomedes, sometimes, but that was less about keeping his bed warm and more about getting his teeth and nails into someone who could take it and waking up in the morning knowing it only mattered as much as it helped, and no more.

Diomedes wasn’t like Achilles. He was steadfast and inscrutable, hard to distract. It made him a very good killer. Better than Odysseus could hope to be. As good as Achilles, in a different way. No god-blood, all wrath, cold where Achilles ran flame-hot.

Odysseus had told him that. Or had wondered it out loud when Diomedes happened to be in his bed. He wouldn’t have told anyone else.

It was probably Diomedes, then, who’d let word get back to Patroclus that Odysseus was… 

Interested would be the wrong word. Odysseus didn’t say anything about being interested. 

He wasn’t, not really. Not in Achilles, or anyone. Not even in Diomedes, for all their nights together. Just Penelope, really.

But Odysseus had mentioned thinking about Achilles. Noticing him. Bronze and burning like a shield left out in the sun. 

And Diomedes must have told Patroclus.

Why, Odysseus wasn’t sure, but he couldn’t think of any other reason Patroclus would have come to him with this, rather than anyone else.

_ This _ , being…

Odysseus wasn’t sure. Patroclus didn’t explain, just said that he needed his help—not  _ help, _ but  _ his help _ , Odysseus’ help in particular—and led him to his and Achilles’ tent. 

Achilles was pacing. Back and forth across the tent in sharp, measured steps. He was still in his greaves and bracers, the metal of them flashing in the low light as his hands rose to his hair, tugged, dropped again, cyclically.

His helmet and chestplate were on the ground, just barely outside Achilles’ path. Dropped there.

There was a noise. It hadn’t occurred to Odysseus at first that it was coming from Achilles, because it wasn’t a human noise. It was more like thunder given a throat. Low, rumbling. Dangerous.

“He won’t listen to me,” Patroclus said, while Odysseus was staring. “He needs… he needs something I can’t give him.”

Odysseus didn’t take his eyes off Achilles. He kept his hands at his sides, carefully not reaching for the knife on his belt. Achilles was the son of a Nereid—of course he didn’t look quite human. That didn’t make him more dangerous than any of the other godspawn in the camp. 

“It would be easier if it were me,” Patroclus went on. “But he likes you well enough.”

He handed Odysseus a coil of rope. It was rough against his palms when he grasped it, unthinking. Ship rope. Thick, coarse.

It took him a moment.

“And why can’t you do it?” Odysseus asked, finally tearing his eyes from Achilles to look at Patroclus.

Patroclus shrugged. He hadn’t grown quite as dramatically as Achilles, but he was definitely taller than he’d been three years ago. Bearded, too. He wore it well. Not all men did. 

He looked terribly sad. Weary, in a way that went beyond simple tiredness. 

Most men were.

“I’d be too gentle with him,” Patroclus said, quietly. “But he gets like this sometimes. Goes to where I can’t reach him. Someone needs to bring him down before I can put him back together.”

Odysseus held the rope tightly. Maybe he and Patroclus would match, by the end of this—palms burned red trying to keep hold of Achilles. “You’re not entrusting me with his… wellbeing, then.”

“Oh, no,” Patroclus chuckled. He scratched his chin, picked something from his beard. “I’ll still be doing that part. I just need someone to hurt him for me.”

The words came out fast. Fast and fragile. Patroclus’ eyes were suddenly wet, and Odysseus had to grip the edge of his chiton to keep from grabbing his knife. He knew what came next.

Achilles’ head rose. The snarling from his chest dropped off into an unnerving silence, and he abandoned his pacing, turning to stare at the two of them.

“Peace, beloved,” Patroclus said, steady again. He squeezed Odysseus’ arm in a way that was certainly meant to be comforting, then turned and strode out of the tent.

Achilles tilted his head.

Odysseus was never telling Diomedes anything, ever again. 

“Sorry,” he said, mildly, and lunged.

Achilles didn’t go down easy. He never had, even when he was a waif of a thing, a dress and a veil away from being easily mistaken for a girl.

He was even harder to topple now. Odysseus had to dig his feet in and throw his weight forward and to the side, kicking Achilles in the ankle, where he knew the godliness that protected him ran thin.

Achilles started to shout, but the sound disappeared into a winded gasp when his back hit the ground. His lashes fluttered for a moment at the lack of air, before he sucked in a breath and grabbed at Odysseus’ shoulders.

They struggled on the rug-covered floor of the tent for a moment, grappling and kicking, chitons tangling, uncouth and near-frantic.

Achilles wasn’t growling anymore, at least—or whatever that tide-coming-in noise from his chest had been. His snarls of exertion were more or less human.

Eventually, they stopped fighting. No one won or lost. Odysseus couldn’t say who let go and rolled to the side first, just that they laid there a moment, both breathing hard, and Odysseus sat up first.

He kicked off his sandals, then went for Achilles’ greaves.

Perhaps lucid enough to permit it, perhaps simply shocked, Achilles was still as Odysseus divested him of his armor, then of his sandals and belt.

“Better?” Odysseus asked.

No response. Achilles’ eyes were narrowed, overbright slits of green. The rumbling growl started up again, then stuttered, stopped.

Odysseus picked up the rope. “Should I bring your Patroclus back in, or do you need more from me?”

Achilles bared too-thin, too-sharp teeth and snarled. Just above the collar of his chiton, slits had opened in his skin. Gills, like a fish or a nymph.

“Patroclus?” Achilles asked, low and throaty. He cradled the name in his mouth, each syllable sharpened.

“Not yet,” Odysseus replied.

Achilles took the rope much less agreeably than he’d allowed himself to be disrobed. He kicked and growled, throwing his weight up to try and knock Odysseus off, and, just once,  _ wailed,  _ high and frantic, the sound carrying longer than the length of a breath, until Odysseus shoved the rope between his teeth.

Eventually, Odysseus had him tied, trussed up and facedown on the rug like a captive Trojan. Already, the rope was starting to scrape against Achilles’ skin; not quite breaking skin, but not leaving him unharmed, either.

For a moment, Odysseus thought that would be all. Achilles would relax and come back to himself, and Odysseus could cut him free and turn him over to Patroclus.

Then Achilles groaned and shifted his weight, pressing his hips to the ground.

“Oh,” Odysseus said, with probably more viciousness to his exuberance than the situation called for. He crouched down, laying a hand on Achilles’ sweat-damp curls. “You want to be fucked, don’t you?”

Achilles shut his eyes. He pressed his forehead down into the rug, lips working against the rope in his mouth. 

“But your Patroclus,” Odysseus guessed. “He won’t debase you like that. Or you won’t ask him to. He thinks the world of you. He won’t put you in your place. Not like you want.”

Odysseus rolled Achilles onto his back, pulling the rope from his mouth. It left blood behind, on his lips and the corners of his mouth.

“Tell me if I’m wrong,” Odysseus said, pulling his own chiton off over his head. “And I’ll stop.”

Achilles’ eyes fluttered. “There’s oil,” he said. “By the bed.”

Odysseus rose. He found the jar of oil and brought it back, intensely aware all the while that he was hard, and Achilles could see it. Could see him wanting.

“I’m sure he wouldn’t mind,” Odysseus said. “If you asked. He just doesn’t want to hurt you, and this doesn’t have to hurt.”

Achilles twitched. The rope dragged across his skin, leaving a harsh red rash that looked like it might bleed. Odysseus wanted to cover it with his palm, feel the heat against his skin.

“I want—” Achilles started, then cut himself off with a hard swallow. He bared his teeth. They weren’t quite Nereid needle-teeth, but they weren’t human, either. “I want you to fuck me.”

“You want  _ him _ to fuck you,” Odysseus said, setting the oil down and getting out his knife. “I just happen to be here.”

“No, I…” Achilles started, then stopped, groaning, as Odysseus cut the ropes binding his knees together and propped Achilles’ legs on his shoulders, dragging him halfway into his lap.

Odysseus replaced his knife in his belt and uncorked the bottle of oil, pouring it into his palm and letting it warm there while he tugged Achilles’ chiton out from under the ropes and pushed it out of the way.

“Wait—” Achilles said, startled. Then, quieter: “Don’t tell anyone.”

Odysseus blinked.

Achilles had a cock, small as it was. Hard, it was barely the length of Odysseus’ palm. It was nestled above a slit, inconspicuous enough that it took Odysseus a moment to realize what it was.

“It’s not,” Achilles said. His breathing was noisy in the sudden silence. “It’s shallow. I don’t—”

Odysseus smoothed his hand—the one not covered in oil—down Achilles’ thigh. “I’ll leave it alone. It’s not what you want from me, yes?”

Achilles nodded.

Odysseus rubbed the oil across his fingers, and began.

Achilles was tight, and hot inside, but he took Odysseus’ fingers well. Only the rope betrayed his squirming—Odysseus would have barely noticed him wriggling if it weren’t for the patterns his bindings scratched into his skin.

Odysseus talked, as he worked. Gentle, rambling praise, barely loud enough to be heard over the slick sounds of his fingers.  _ So good, so tight for me, so sweet, I know you can take another, just relax, you’re being so good. _

Three fingers, and Achilles dropped his head from where he’d been craning it up to watch. It thudded dully against the ground. “Please,” he muttered.

Odysseus pulled his fingers out. He stroked his own cock with the oil that was left on his hand, slicking himself, then grabbed the rope that crossed Achilles’ chest. “Up you come.”

It would have been easier when Achilles was younger, and still small enough that he would fit in Odysseus’ lap. But Odysseus could work with this too, especially with Achilles so pliant, helpfully obeying instructions as Odysseus lined up his cock.

“If only you were so compliant more often,” Odysseus teased, and Achilles flushed boyishly. 

Odysseus smiled, and pulled Achilles down onto his cock.

“Oh,” Achilles said. Breathless, quiet. He shifted his weight slightly.

“Good?” Odysseus asked.

He didn’t wait for an answer. He spilled Achilles forward, dropping him back onto the rug, and leaned over him, fucking into him in earnest.

Achilles made such pretty sounds when he was fucked. If Odysseus didn’t know better—if it hadn’t taken a fight and a coil of ship-rope and the whole of the war so far to get him here—he  _ would _ envy Patroclus, for having this sweet thing in his bed every night.

If Odysseus came imagining that this had been asked of him out of desire rather than necessity, no one would know but him.

Odysseus pulled out, caught his breath, and curled forward, propping himself up on one elbow. He took Achilles in hand, cradling his cock in his palm.

“Please,” Achilles begged. “Please, please, I can’t, I’m…”

“You’re nearly there,” Odysseus soothed. He only needed one thumb to stroke the whole length of him.

“Patroclus,” Achilles said. “I need Pat, I need—” 

Ouch.

“He’s right outside,” Odysseus said. “Listening to me do this to you. I’m sure he’s enjoying the show.”

Achilles came in his hand, whining.

Odysseus cut him free of the rope and left him on the rug. By the time he had dressed himself, Patroclus was already at the entrance of the tent, holding the flap open to let Odysseus out.

“Thank you,” Patroclus said, lowly. He kissed Odysseus, chaste and quick, then went to Achilles.

Odysseus looked back, just once, before he left.


	2. afterward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Achilles grieves. Odysseus does what he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please note the updated tags

Half-dozing with his head on Diomedes’ shoulder, Odysseus watched the campfire die.

It burned low around the pressed block of herbs at its center—incense, to keep back the stink of death.

It was a war-camp. Something would always be rotting. There was never enough time for funerals, never enough time to grieve. Never enough hands in the white tent to bind wounds and stave off infection.

It was all they could do to drown out the smell.

Diomedes was holding Odysseus’ hand. His calloused palm was cool, despite the campfire-heat washing over them. The faint movement of his thumb, idly tracing the tendons up and down, was the only thing keeping Odysseus awake.

He tried to remember if Diomedes had ever held his hand before, and couldn’t think of a single time. Neither of them were the type for open affection, not in a place like this.

Odysseus couldn’t exactly fault him for seeking comfort, given the circumstances.

As if summoned by his thoughts, Antilochus stepped out of the dark. The dying fire barely cut the shadows from his face, but it reflected sharply off the ornate hilt of the sword at his hip.

Odysseus sat up. Diomedes twitched at his side, gripping his hand tighter. The crackle of the fire didn’t quite cover up the sound of his blade hissing from its sheath.

They all sat without breathing for a moment.

“Just me,” Antilochus said, belatedly. His fingers closed around the hilt of the sword, the movement jerking and sudden, as if he was wrenching it out of Achilles’ hand all over again.

(Ten years of war, and that was what lived on the back of Antilochus’ eyelids when he tried to sleep, he’d told Odysseus, low-voiced. No blood or gore, just how brittle the bones of Achilles’ wrist felt when Antilochus stopped him from slitting his own throat.

Odysseus couldn’t blame him. Not for that. Not when Antilochus had loved them both, as much as they’d allowed themselves to be loved by anyone but each other.)

Diomedes was still gripping Odysseus’ hand tight enough to ache, so Odysseus reached over and stroked the back of his hand until he released him.

“My shift, then?” he asked Antilochus, standing up and squeezing Diomedes’ shoulder. “Take care of this one?”

Diomedes nodded and rose, pausing only a moment to kiss Odysseus chastely, before he rounded the fire and took Antilochus by the elbow, pulling him flush against his side.

Odysseus watched the dark swallow them, then turned and went toward Achilles’ tent.

The smell of rot dropped off, swallowed by the smell of the sea, and the too-sweet bite of ambrosia that the gods had used to preserve Patroclus and Hector both, while Achilles hoarded their bodies by his tent, keeping them from the pyre.

He’d finally relented halfway, and Patroclus had been burned. His bones and ashes were at rest in a golden amphora, waiting for Achilles’ remains to join them.

Hector still lay facedown somewhere in the sand. The beach was too dark to pick him out from the rest of the detritus.

The crying was relatively quiet, at least. For the time it took to walk across the beach to Achilles’ tent, Odysseus could almost pretend that all he heard was the sound of the sea.

He opened the tent flap. The sound of weeping spilled out, like wine from a cracked vessel.

Odysseus stepped inside, and the smell struck him.

Hot and acrid, somewhere between spoiled food and the unburied dead. It hung in the still air of the tent, unmistakable.

Rotting blood.

Frustration snagged on grief, tearing ragged edges in his anger and lodging in his throat.

“Achilles,” Odysseus called, aiming for calm and missing entirely.

The crying trailed off.

His shape soft-edged in the dark, Achilles sat up. His eyes flashed, despite the absence of light.

Odysseus didn’t look close enough to see if the expression in them was hope. He wasn’t certain he could bear it, if it was.

“What?” Achilles asked, his voice raw with his weeping. “What do you want from me?”

The misery was as thick in the air as the smell of rot. There was no easy way to breathe.

Odysseus felt across the floor near the tent’s opening, until his hand brushed a bronze plate encrusted with candle wax.

Fumbling, he lit the candle. The glow barely pierced the shadows, but it was better than the dark.

Achilles was curled in on himself in the far corner of the tent, past the empty frame of the bed. He seemed to have dragged the bedding into a pile, nesting in it like a Nereid in a tidepool.

“What do you want?” Achilles repeated.

Carefully, Odysseus crossed the tent. He crouched beside Achilles, nostrils flaring at the smell of him—blood-rot and unwashed skin.

“It doesn’t disturb you?” Odysseus asked. “To have blood rotting in your hair?”

Achilles’ tears caught the candlelight as they fell, painting his cheeks with lines of gold. His lips parted, then pressed together again. “What do you want?” he said again, through a sob that shook his whole body. “I have nothing to give you, what more do you want?”

Odysseus slapped him across the face.

Achilles lurched, startled from his muttering by the impact. His eyes widened, his hands unknotting from the blanket, rising as if to block another blow.

For once in his life, Achilles moved too slowly. Odysseus hit him again, in the stomach, and grabbed him by the hair, dragging him from the tent.

Even half-starved, Achilles could have escaped his grip. He was taller and broader than Odysseus, and stronger by far. If it had occurred to him to fight back, he would have overpowered Odysseus easily.

He didn’t. He let himself be dragged, barely making an effort to keep his feet under him as Odysseus hauled him across the beach and shoved him into the surf.

_ He won’t hurt any of us, _ Antilochus had said, the day after Patroclus died.  _ His rage is only for Hector and himself. _

Odysseus hadn’t quite believed him. He still didn’t—a creature like Achilles couldn’t be trusted to keep his pain turned on himself. The way he’d been killing was proof enough of that.

But Achilles didn’t fight when Odysseus shoved his head under the waves, scrubbing the rotting blood from his curls.

He didn’t fight until Odysseus pulled him out of the waves again. 

Then Achilles threw his weight backward, knocking them both into the sand.

A wave washed over them, sudden and stinging. Odysseus sputtered when it abated, spit water, heaved for breath.

Achilles was over top of him, scrabbling at Odysseus’ belt and emerging with his knife in hand.

_ No, _ Odysseus thought, reaching for him, but Achilles only brought the knife to the back of his head, cutting his golden hair away in one ragged chunk.

Odysseus took the knife from him.

The waves crashed around their knees, salt-sharp and frigid.

Achilles began to wail, high and inhuman, not pausing for breath. His hands shuddered up from his lap, reached out as if for something to hold.

Odysseus wasn’t strong enough to refuse him. Not after that. 

He gathered Achilles into his arms and cradled him like a child, curling around him as if he could protect him from further harm.

It was all he could do.


	3. beyond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Death is not the end. On occasion, it's only the beginning.

Odysseus twisted the point of his knife against his heel, digging out the last of the stone shards that had been biting into his feet all the way up the stairs from Asphodel. Fucking service passageway.

He flicked the pointed stone into the fountain, where Elysium’s anal-retentive desire for cleanliness would eat it away to nothing, then lowered his foot in after it, watching the blood spiral out and disippate.

It always seemed like a grand gesture of irony, that Elysium had provided him with a house. Almost an insult— _ sit down, old man, take a load off. You might’ve died a hero, but you needn’t fight with the young things. _

He might’ve even taken that as it was, if the house hadn’t been designed for two people.

That had been as close to permission as Odysseus needed. He’d left the chamber that Elysium had led him to, and gone looking for Penelope.

He hadn’t found her anywhere in Elysium, but he’d found shades that sympathized every time he turned around.  _ I’m looking for my mother, my father, my lover, my sibling, my wife. _

So often, it was wives.

Penelope, Odysseus thought, should have been recognized as a hero. She’d stood as strong and impervious as the walls of Troy, for twice as long.

She was as cunning as Odysseus, as brave, as stubborn. She should have been in Elysium.

“I don’t think the Lord of the Dead likes heroes very much,” Patroclus had said, wryly, when Odysseus found him alone in a grove, slumped beside the Lethe as though he’d lost the strength to stand. “That would explain why he’s so intent on punishing us.”

Then Patroclus had reached up, clasped the back of Odysseus’ calf, and squeezed firmly, like he was gentling a startled animal. “Don’t sit down. You won’t get back up. Go find yourself something to do.”

So Odysseus stayed on his feet, and set about trying to break out of Elysium.

He’d found Asphodel, eventually, through a service entrance behind a statue that regenerated itself slower than the others. 

He hadn’t found Penelope yet. Asphodel was even larger than Elysium, and almost entirely flooded with the magma of the river Phlegethon, navigable only on rickety, claustrophobic rafts.

He would keep traveling back and forth and back, until he found her, and probably afterwards, too, given the reputation he’d developed for guiding shades up and down the winding stairs.

Odysseus lifted his feet out of the fountain, tucked his knife back into its sheath, and rose. The house may have been an insult added to his injuries, but it still suited him to have a place to return to.

He walked into the bedroom, and found Achilles curled up on the kline.

“Ah.”

Achilles, looking heartbreakingly young despite the lines of age on his face, had dragged the blankets from the bed and made himself a nest, wrapping himself up so securely that he was nearly buried within it, limbs pinned at odd angles against his sides.

“Don’t  _ ah _ at me, Odysseus,” Achilles muttered, eyes slitting open, startlingly green. “You told me I was welcome here.”

“I did,” Odysseus admitted. It wasn’t like he could have turned Achilles away, not when he arrived in Elysium looking twenty years older than he’d actually been when he died, golden hair dull and tangled, clinging to Patroclus like he might lose him again.

How could he deny either of them anything, when he’d failed them so thoroughly in life? 

Achilles was still looking up at him. “Did you meet anyone we know?” he asked, huddling slightly further into the blanket.

Odysseus shook his head. He let Achilles acclimate to his presence for a moment, then scooped him up, gathering him in his arms and turning, sitting down on the kline with Achilles on top of him.

Achilles was thinner in his shade-form than he’d been during the war, but he was still bulkier than Odysseus, not quite fitting on his lap. Most of the blankets dropped to the floor as they settled themselves, ungainly but comfortable.

Odysseus squeezed him tightly. “Where’s Patroclus?”

“Wandering,” Achilles said, hooking his chin over Odysseus’ shoulder. “He’s trying to find Antilochus. We haven’t seen him in some time—we think he might be trying the Colosseum. Or at the theatre. Equally likely.”

_ You gave that poor boy a fright, you know, _ Odysseus didn’t say, though he’d been thinking the words ever since Achilles had found his way to Elysium. “Have either of you heard any tell of Diomedes? I’ve not been able to find him.”

Achilles shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re always sorry, these days,” Odysseus scolded, squeezing him tighter. “Sorry, sorry, sorry. For what have I asked you to apologize?”

Achilles shifted so they were looking at each other. “I’m sorry for quite a bit, Odysseus. But in this case, I… I’ve been reunited with Patroclus. You haven’t found Penelope or Diomedes, yet. I feel… selfish, imposing on you like this, asking for your comfort.”

Odysseus kissed him, chaste. “I don’t doubt that you and Patroclus love each other as much as it’s possible to love, or that you’re doted on by Antilochus and that prince of yours when they happen to stop by. But I’m your friend. A man needs friends, especially when he’s recovering.”

“Recovering,” Achilles echoed, his brows drawing together.

“Being apart from him hurt you badly,” Odysseus said, pressing a hand to Achilles’ chest, over his heart. “And being apart from you hurt him. You both need time to heal, and you can’t do that by bleeding yourselves dry to heal each other.”

Achilles was quiet for a moment.

“Who made you so clever?”

“Perhaps I should say Athena,” Odysseus said. “But the truth is that it was time. Time does more for wounds and flaws than the gods ever could. I promise you that, Achilles. We will all heal. Time is the one commodity we will never be without, here.”

Achilles turned his face against Odysseus’ throat and stayed there a moment, huddled. “I see.” He exhaled, slowly. “I don’t know what I am, without that guilt. I’ve made so much of myself from it.”

Odysseus tightened his grip on him. “You’re forgiven, Achilles. What you are is  _ forgiven. _ ”

Like always, Achilles gasped. He tensed in Odysseus’ arms, then slowly relaxed.

“I am forgiven,” he repeated, damp as freshly turned soil. The words caught, snagged. “I am forgiven.”

Odysseus kissed his temple, his forehead, his cheek. He held him tight, keeping him pinned to his chest, where he couldn’t escape the words. “You’re forgiven.”


End file.
